Blood and Old Lace
by Sabriel41
Summary: In which Tifa realizes that sometimes life can only be lived a day, a fight, or a cup of coffee at a time. It may be a fractured existence, but she's never alone... [Gift for cobalt dragonfly]


**Blood and Old Lace**

**_. o ._**

She doesn't have much that was her mother's, save an armful of old clothes and the memory of being wrapped in an embrace that smelled faintly of summer. But before she can memorize or grow into anything, most of her mother's things were packed away in boxes and stored in a trunk at the foot of her bed, or given away to neighbors who smiled sympathetically and brought over foil-wrapped food packages for the man who couldn't cook and his girl-child who did not know how.

It was late in summer four years later when she realizes that she is no longer a child herself, and though he tries, her father can never really show her how to grow up to be the ladies she sees on television and around the town square, talking idly of love and the town's affairs. The other girls have time to be concerned about coy flirtations and party dresses, and while she laughs with them, she spends far more time in Zangan's rickety dojang, training her hands and feet in a timelessly deadly art. She has seen where the simpering smiles and come-hither eyes can lead, and she does not want to fall victim to what she sees.

She becomes a young woman, with curves she hates and hair that's always in her eyes when she practices at her piano, or when she leans over her double-chocolate birthday cake, smiling at the lopsided frosting letters and _beaming_ at her absent-minded, gold-hearted father. Tifa doesn't tell him that the hairstyle he loves on her is slowly driving her crazy. Nor does she confide that at fifteen, she has perfected a jaw-splintering right jab to keep suitors at a distance. And most of the time she doesn't care; there are bills to be paid, school to attend, a father to care for, and she doesn't want a fumbling schoolboy anyways.

Even so, she dreams of a protector. Of a white knight who loves her; perhaps a bodyguard. Of someone to be strong for her, so she doesn't always have to be.

And just because fate enjoys complications, somewhere along the way she befriends a boy who is even quieter than she is, his most distinctive feature his wildly spiky hair. She wonders why he wears it that way, as it always attracts attention that he never seems to want.

She shares a moment of abashed teenaged awkwardness with him atop an old well, summer starlight shimmering. She'd worn her sea-green dress, her favorite, and it would later be said that her beauty rivaled the night itself. Poets and common men alike would exalt her beauty, but despite his shy smiles and misplaced bravado, it was clear that he saw her as nothing but what she was. A friend, a neighbour… nothing less, and nothing more. Even so, as he promised his protection, she silently pledged her heart.

_. o ._

Four years later, new scars crossing her heart and body, she walks into a town that should not be there and plays a piano that she _knew_ had burned to the ground along with her childhood. The song is slow and haunting; she hasn't forgotten everything, but her callused fingers are more suited to twirling shot glasses and breaking armor now, so it is halting at times.

Ageless crimson eyes catch hers as she finishes, shot through with a curious mixture of regret and longing. Her own eyes widen; she hadn't even realized that the newest member of their motley group had stayed to listen. Slowly, she realizes his gaze was for the piano, and her smile turns sad.

"I played, once," he murmurs, dusty baritone ragged.

"You could, you know," she answers quietly, gesturing towards the keys. "I mean, I'm sure you're better than I am… I haven't played for years…"

Vincent raises his arm, letting golden claws glint fiercely in the sunlight, and quirked an eyebrow as she stammered an apology.

But before Tifa can become well and truly frightened of the red-cloaked gunslinger, he offers her the same arm in a gesture she knows only because of her love for old movies. Once again, his expression has neutralized…what little she can see of it over the high-necked cloak… but she smiles carefully and slips her hand around his arm as they move to join the others on the lower floor.

She is glad for his arm, unfamiliar though he is, for when the grand farce that is her home truly hits her she nearly falls to her knees. It is _exactly_ as it was then, and she wonders not for the first time in the last hour if she's gone crazy.

_He_'s reeling too, the broken blond soldier, and she almost slips from the gunslinger's arm to cradle him until she realizes Aeris has already tucked her arm around Cloud's kneeling form. So she looks over to where Barret is standing and tosses him a weak smile; she knows that her old friend is half an inch away from asking in no uncertain terms what in Planet's name is wrong with everyone, and prays he won't; she can't answer, and she's willing to venture no-one else can.

An almost imperceptible pressure on her arm alerts her to the gunman at her side, and for a moment she thinks that his eyes soften in sympathy. He knows this pain, this loss; she's only just met him, and she _knows _he does. Maybe it's her years of numbing broken hearts and sweeping up shattered bottles that allows her this insight as Vincent releases her arm and walks imperiously out of the room.

"We'll wait outside, Tifa." A fleeting brush on her shoulder, and Aeris follows with Cloud in tow, his blue eyes dimmed.

Cloud's not her knight, nor her bodyguard; somehow, the situation reversed itself, and Tifa wonders if she'd always been the stronger one and never realized it. Barret and Nanaki also move out of the room, the former pausing in the doorway to shoot a look of concern at her. "One word, Teef, and we'll stay."

She hears herself answer, telling him to go. "It's all right," she tells Barret, and though he's unconvinced, he turns, leaving her to her thoughts and unwelcome memories.

A handful of seconds pass as she looks around before being drawn back up the stairs to her room. Blindly, she stumbles to the trunk at the end of her bed; the horrible facade can't be this complete; surely _everything_ cannot be the same…

Lifting off the lid almost harshly, she succeeds in sinking to her knees this time. She doesn't know how it is there – she doesn't think she wants to know how whoever rebuilt the town knew what to put in it – but a couple of shirts, a lacy ivory wedding dress, a few books, and a stack of old photographs fill it to the brim.

Tifa looks away in horror, and when she looks back the trunk is empty; its contents just figments of her imagination, if terrible ones. She leaves immediately, the lid of the trunk clamoring down to settle on the floor.

_Good,_ she thinks. _Not quite the same anymore._ Tifa stalks quickly through the town's square and meets with the others, fighting to keep her expression neutral.

She does not look back when they leave.

_. o ._

A week later, she slips out of the camp under Cloud's watch. It's not the first night she's left to shadowbox her way to exhaustion, but it is the first time she has snuck out. Walking out of the copse of trees the tentsare pegged under, she stretches before tying her hair up tightly and fastening her gloves. Tifa casts a rueful look back, but pulls herself confidently into her fighting stance. A second later, she is thrusting her hands out at the air in a quick series of jabs and uppercuts, pretending that those who burned and rebuilt her town without thought or remorse are slipping through the air in front of her… Her eyes close calmly; she knows these movements as most know their own breathing.

But when her eyes open again, she is no longer alone; there is someone in front of her, effortlessly evading the punches which have sincegained ferocity and speed.

If he had let her, she was certain her scream would have brought half the forest's inhabitants either rushing to eat her or clamoring to her aid.

But a black-gloved hand covers her mouth, and for the first time since that day in Nibelheim, his unusual eyes met hers. "Keep fighting, Tifa."

Tifa isn't sure if she could fight him now if he had a gun to her head, caught by surprise as she was… and although they both know he'd never do _that_, she stutter-steps backwards. If it's a fight he wants…

She obliges, but he continues to slip around her like the shadows he's so fond of, causing her to grit her teeth in frustration and increase her concentration. Vincent rumbles in approval when her punches gain focus, and she swears half-heartedly at him under her breath.

He only quirks an eyebrow at her muttered profanities and began to throw punches back at her.

She thinks for a moment that Turk training cannot have changed that much; she remembers similar elements to his style from their group's last spar with Shinra's Turks. Though they apply the moves differently, and the tall, bald Turk is a stronger fighter, there is fluidity to the gunman's style that is admirable, especially if his preposterous history is actually true.

Perhaps it is; she is tiring, and if he is, he's not showing it. As his long hair flicks at her shoulders as he slides to her side, she realizes he does have a weakness, however… release that hairband of his, and it would give her enough time to gain the upper hand.

So the next time he is within reach, she jabs first, and then reaches just as quickly with her free arm to loosen the strip of burgundy fabric. It works, twisting out of his dark hair, which falls into his eyes as expected. But in the time it takes her to smile triumphantly, Vincent has one hand grasping her shoulder and a wickedly sharp claw under her chin.

"Shadows aren't supposed to fight back," Tifa admonishes, catching her breath.

"Sometimes they do," he says quietly. "Sometimes the thing you least expect to harm you is the most dangerous of all…"

There's a year's worth of a story behind his words and the painful quirk to his lips. But she's not about to break this unusual amity, so she holds her questions and smiles brightly when she looks up at him. "Good fight, Vincent."

After a precious, frozen half-second, Vincent drops his hand and steps back from her with something like guilt. "You are also an impressive combatant, Tifa. But you must be tired; we should return to camp…"

So they did, an almostcompanionable silence between them as they walked back. It is only in the morning, when she woke to see a tangle of scarlet fabric around her hand, that she smiles, remembering that she never actually returned his headscarf...

_. o ._

Shivering in the cold Northern air, Tifa emerges from the room where fragments of her friend's past have been revealed. She can't believe that Aeris is gone. Dead. Brutally skewered and smiling peacefully at the last.

_Damn._

It's well and good that Sephiroth disappeared quickly; the abomination he left behind was a challenge, but blinded by tears and fury though they were, they all made quick work of the monster. She doubted that she was alone in imagining that each strike was tearing black leather and breaking silver armour instead…

A shout from the shinobi girl brings Tifa out of her thoughts; Yuffie is waving her over from the door of Icicle Village's tiny coffee shop, and Tifa nods in reply – she's not normally one for caffeine, but if there ever was a moment to break that rule, it is _this _one. Before she can move, however, the descent of heavy crimson fabric about her shoulders stops her. Once it has settled, Tifa cranes her neck over the elevated cowl to send a look up at the gunslinger, whose lips are curled almost invisibly in amusement at how she has almost drowned in the cape's folds.

But she sees it, and meets his half-smile with a grin that she _knows_ would take out the knees of the average male. "Thanks."

He only nods back, by all accounts unfazed. "You need it more than I do."

It's true – Tifa is not sure what possessed her to take the coat she did, as her thin jacket hardly survives the Midgarian winters, and is much less suited to the frigid climes of their present location. It is needless to say that she is terribly grateful for the extra warmth, though the slight scent of black licorice and sandalwood embedded in it is almost intoxicating. But she shakes her head… _now_ is not the time to think such things.

"Join us?" She knows his answer, but he deserves to be asked.

"I shall retire to the inn at this time, but I thank you for your invitation, Tifa," he replies. Looking over at Yuffie, who was happily making absurd kissing gestures at the two of them, Vincent's tone was wry as he continued. "Keep an eye on your gil-purse."

Chuckling, Tifa picked up the cloak so it didn't trail too much in the snow, and swept him a ridiculous curtsey – all scarlet fabric, soft brown hair, and sparkling claret eyes, and he didn't think he'd ever seen anything prettier – but a ghost flashes across his memory, and the warmth that she thought she saw as she dipped disappears immediately.

But she doesn't let him go this easily. Stretching out her arm to his retreating form, she catches him by the shoulder. "Thank you, Vincent…" Pausing, warmth sparks her next words. "And I'll keep an eye on my gil. Promise."

It's a rusted half-smile that he tips over his shoulder at her… but she's damned if it's not better than nothing, and she'll take it gladly. If only the ninja who is now grinning at her like the cat that ate the proverbial chocobo was as easy to placate, her work would be cut out for her.

Tifa's expression softens anyways as she nears the shinobi and the coffee shop… a warm cloak and a warmer smile won't solve their problems overnight, and even after _everything_, they still have many cold miles to walk. All of them do. But it helps, anyways.

The gunslinger at her back isn't much of a white knight; he could have been, if only for the way he walks, the way he breathes, and the way he catches her eye when she least expects it, only to look away immediately once he has. He's tarnished and crimson-gold now… but so is she, and they're both stronger, maybe even better people for it. Reaching a bemused Yuffie, whose smile seems as painfully stretched as her own, Tifa takes a deep breath, slips her arm chummily through the younger girl's, and opens the door to the coffee-shop. "Get whatever you want, Yuffie-gal… I'm paying."

_It's not like I wouldn't be paying, anyways…_ Tifa thinks, handing off a small wad of gil to Yuffie and claiming a small table beside the window for them. There's no bitterness in her thoughts as she settles, though, shrugging back Vincent's cloak and shouting back that _yes_, she only wants a coffee with two sugars, not a double orange chocolate mochafrappu_something_ There's just a new sympathy for her friend, who was, up until a handful of days ago, still a child in many ways. But the carefully hopeful grin on Yuffie's face as she walks over is worth the price of a hundred overpriced, ornately named coffees. Easily. Even if the fact that Vincent's supposedly indispensable cloak is presently draped around her means that Yuffie will tease her mercilessly until she's distracted otherwise, it's still worth it.

Memory may heal their wounds with time, but it is this hope, this friendship… _heck,_ Tifa smiles, _this coffee_… that will see her to tomorrow.

From there, it's anyone's guess.

And maybe it is the mountain air… maybe it's that she has finally gone off the deep end… but Tifa Lockheart is starting to think that she's starting tolike life that way.

_. o ._

_…finis…_

_. o ._

_Disclaimer: _Final Fantasy VII, including all of its characters and locations, still belong to SquareEnix. Pity, really…

_Sabriel's__ Scribbles:_ …well, it's a faint Vincent/Tifa, and it's a very belated Christmas story for friend and fellow writer cobaltdragonfly (who has the patience of a saint)… it's also quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever written. My already impressive regard for the stellar VinTif authors out there just got knocked up a handful of notches – these two are VERY hard to write together. (And while I know I said this already about Reno and Tifa… it stands.)

Thank-you, unknown reader, for reading; I hope you enjoyed the tale. As always, feedback feeds the (starving student) writer, but in the meanwhile...Cheers, and starry nights!


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